Fuseseră aiese doar materiale nobile, lemn masiv, întărit cu ferecături. Unele fotolii erau atât de grele, încât aveai nevoie de trei oameni ca să le poţi deplasa. Georges auzise că în unele ţinuturi, devastate în mod regulat de taifunuri, mobilele sunt foraje puturi prinse cu şuruburi de podea pentru a nu fi luate de trombă. Nu ştia dacă e vorba de un fapt adevărat sau doar de o poveste, dar de un iucru era sigur: ciclonul ar fi putut să treacă peste casa Ior fără să deplaseze din loc nici măcar un fotoliu! Totul fusese aranjat aici o dată pentru totdeauna, după dorinţa lui Wemer Mareuil-Mondesco, în urmă cu treizeci de ani.
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
Se afișează postările cu eticheta foraje puturi. Afișați toate postările
Se afișează postările cu eticheta foraje puturi. Afișați toate postările
miercuri, 4 mai 2011
Scoala de soferi Bucuresti
Mijlocul marii biblioteci. La miezul nopţii, casa va începe sâ transpire... Totdeauna îneepea aşa. Sudoarea brobonea pielea fotoliilor, îmbrăcămintea cărţilor. EI Ie ştergea frenetic cu o batistă, agitându-se şi suflând zgomotos. Ea stăteaîn umbră, ca de fiecare dată, până în momentul când trebuia să intre în scenă. Fiindcă era şi puţin actriţă, nu-i aşa? Dacă nu vrei să-i superi pe nebuni şi să le stârneşti mânia, trebuie, evident, să ştii să joci teatru.
O pală de vânt agită revistele dintr-un chioşc. Unul dintre titluri o făcu să zâmbească: Jupuitorul umblă pe străzile noastre...
Suna ca un roman-foileton de prin anii treizeci. Un titlu scoala de soferi melodramatic, pentru o poveste incredibilă despre care se vorbea în toată presa, fericindu-i pe ziarişti. Jupuitorul umbla pe străzi, iar ea era într-un... salon de ceai, în compania unor burgheze grase, severe şi puţin cam moleşite.
Pisica siameză adulmeca pachetele îngrămădite Ia piciorul mesei. Acum, lui Sarah i-ar fi fost cam greu să-şi aducă aminte ce anume cumpărase în cursul după-amiezei. Hainele, lenjeria deveneau la apropierea serii nişte accesorii lipsite de impor-tanţă. Le-ar fi putut face cadou unei trecătoare sau le-ar fi putut îngrâmădi în prima pubelă ieşită în cale, dacă nu s-ar fi temut că în felul acesta va atrage atenţia. Pentru că nu-şi putea permite cu nici un preţ să atragă atenţia. De altfel, ăsta şi era motivui pentru care ieşea atât de puţin în oraş.
Se aprinseseră felinarele. Se făcea noapte. în curând vor veni iama, Crăciunul, goana după cadouri, după cumpărături, un ritual de la care ea era exciusă. Dădu resemnată din umeri, plăti şi işi luă de jos pachetele. Pisica mieună deranjată. Ii veni să-i şoptească: ,,Taci. Taci, că altfel îi chem pe Jupuitor..."
Ieşi. Bulevardul şi valul de maşini încă o mai despărţeau de zidul înalt şi cenuşiu. O cazarmă? Un institut?
O pală de vânt agită revistele dintr-un chioşc. Unul dintre titluri o făcu să zâmbească: Jupuitorul umblă pe străzile noastre...
Suna ca un roman-foileton de prin anii treizeci. Un titlu scoala de soferi melodramatic, pentru o poveste incredibilă despre care se vorbea în toată presa, fericindu-i pe ziarişti. Jupuitorul umbla pe străzi, iar ea era într-un... salon de ceai, în compania unor burgheze grase, severe şi puţin cam moleşite.
Pisica siameză adulmeca pachetele îngrămădite Ia piciorul mesei. Acum, lui Sarah i-ar fi fost cam greu să-şi aducă aminte ce anume cumpărase în cursul după-amiezei. Hainele, lenjeria deveneau la apropierea serii nişte accesorii lipsite de impor-tanţă. Le-ar fi putut face cadou unei trecătoare sau le-ar fi putut îngrâmădi în prima pubelă ieşită în cale, dacă nu s-ar fi temut că în felul acesta va atrage atenţia. Pentru că nu-şi putea permite cu nici un preţ să atragă atenţia. De altfel, ăsta şi era motivui pentru care ieşea atât de puţin în oraş.
Se aprinseseră felinarele. Se făcea noapte. în curând vor veni iama, Crăciunul, goana după cadouri, după cumpărături, un ritual de la care ea era exciusă. Dădu resemnată din umeri, plăti şi işi luă de jos pachetele. Pisica mieună deranjată. Ii veni să-i şoptească: ,,Taci. Taci, că altfel îi chem pe Jupuitor..."
Ieşi. Bulevardul şi valul de maşini încă o mai despărţeau de zidul înalt şi cenuşiu. O cazarmă? Un institut?
Piele neagra
îmbrăcată toată în pieie neagră, cu umerii obrajilor proemi-nenţi, ochii alungiţi şi parcă ceva dintr-o preoteasă egipteană obosită de rugăciuni nesfârşite. Rugâciuni sau sacrificii...
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
marți, 1 februarie 2011
Sad news
I am recovering from a daunting weekend with my usually cold and somewhat calculating sister who I have just realized is on the verge of divorce from her husband of 16 years, 2 kids later. It breaks my heart, truly.
An attorney by trade, my sis has spent her life studiously rising the ranks of the legal profession to today when she can call herself VP Head of Legal for one of the largest natural gas manufacturers in the world, at the wee age of 38. Sounds important huh! The problem is that somewhere along the way she seems to have forgotten her husband behind taking care of their children, now ages 10 and 7, and as a result he (and his non-career) have become a non-contributor to their lives, and a complete bore to hers.
Sad right.
It hurt to see this usually proud woman who spent most of her years growing up strutting around with her superiority complex suddenly crumble and not know what to do or how to get out of a situation she put herself in back when she was merely 23. Without warning here I was, the little (slightly ditzy) sister, offering advise on the professionals next 50 years of life... an interesting turn of fate.
Naturally my biggest concern here being the fact that there are children involved. And not little ones.. preteens who's mother travels constantly and who have grown up depending on their father to take care of them. If my sister goes along with her plan to separate who knows what will happen to those two little ones. I envision this being an ugly, back-stabbing, "you never did anything right" kind of divorce... and that's before my parents even start bringing religion into the mix.
Just so, so sad.
An attorney by trade, my sis has spent her life studiously rising the ranks of the legal profession to today when she can call herself VP Head of Legal for one of the largest natural gas manufacturers in the world, at the wee age of 38. Sounds important huh! The problem is that somewhere along the way she seems to have forgotten her husband behind taking care of their children, now ages 10 and 7, and as a result he (and his non-career) have become a non-contributor to their lives, and a complete bore to hers.
Sad right.
It hurt to see this usually proud woman who spent most of her years growing up strutting around with her superiority complex suddenly crumble and not know what to do or how to get out of a situation she put herself in back when she was merely 23. Without warning here I was, the little (slightly ditzy) sister, offering advise on the professionals next 50 years of life... an interesting turn of fate.
Naturally my biggest concern here being the fact that there are children involved. And not little ones.. preteens who's mother travels constantly and who have grown up depending on their father to take care of them. If my sister goes along with her plan to separate who knows what will happen to those two little ones. I envision this being an ugly, back-stabbing, "you never did anything right" kind of divorce... and that's before my parents even start bringing religion into the mix.
Just so, so sad.
That'll be $10 thanks
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Being a woman infertile woman means that I will, from time to time spend many degrading hours, legs spread-eagled while Dr. So-and-So, and Dr. This-and-That poke, prod, ooh and ahh at the workings and malfunctions of my busted bits.
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
Being a
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
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